Page 75 of New Orleans Rush

It was past two a.m. He wasn’t expecting Beatrice to still be up, but he wasn’t complaining. This time there were no funny quips about wishing she could roller skate on her client’s marble floors or about Maude crushing on a neighbor’s Chihuahua. Instead she sent a selfie of herself with her new favorite poodle, cuddled together on a plush dog bed.

He grinned. Trying to capture her delight in a painting was a fool’s errand. That kind of sunlight couldn’t be bottled. She couldn’t and shouldn’t be tamed.

Leaving the background for tomorrow, he grabbed his keys and drove to the theater. He may have lost the chance to tell Beatrice he loved her before she left, but he would tell her the second she returned. He would tell his father now. It may be silly, sitting in a darkened theater, speaking to no one. Maybe Max Marlow heard him on those lonely nights. Maybe not. But this wouldn’t be the sad confessions of a lost son. This would be the declarations of someone finally found.

He parked across the street. His rumbling engine faded—an engine he and his father had rebuilt. The timing was perfect, having the car fixed along with the theater. Everything was falling into place. He closed the door and traced the hood’s pinstripe. Good thing it was a thin detail, not a bold design. Any larger, and Beatrice might not have mistaken it for her ex’s car. She wouldn’t have upended his life.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he crossed the street, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Just thinking about his zigzag girl made him smile. So simple yet astounding, how love could transform your world. Turn half-empty glasses half full. If he wasn’t careful, he’d start skipping down the street.

The area was quiet and peaceful at this hour, the perfect backdrop to his pleasant musings. Then he heard the unmistakable hiss of spray paint and the clattering of a can hitting cement.

The direction of the noise could only mean one thing, a possibility that had Huxley’s heart pounding in his ears as he raced toward his immaculate building. His gut lurched at the sight. His half-full grin slipped from his face.

Goddamn Oliphant.

26

Some punk blew past him, running like his ass was on fire, but Huxley didn’t chase the kid or call after him. He stood frozen, the cement feeling unstable below his feet. All he could do was stare at the male genitalia scrawled over his newly refurbished theater.

There were several images spread around, but the largest was drawn with an artistic flair, of the comic book sort, with wings allowing this particular erection flight. It put Huxley’s penis-mutant-unicorn to shame. It also brought bile to his throat. He’d exhausted every option but burglary to fix the theater. Repainting would cost another few thousand, and his court date was just over a day away. Spots flashed behind his eyes.

Considering Oliphant’s history with defacing Max Marlow’s posters with dick pics, this stunt had that mustache’s germs all over it. It must be why Oliphant had been smug when Huxley had admitted he’d used his last dime upgrading his theater. Oliphant knew a blow right before his hearing would cripple him. It was an attempt to force him back to the poker table.

No fucking way.

Oliphant clearly hadn’t thought through his sabotage. Huxley had his photos from earlier and Trevor’s corroboration that the work had been done. He’d call the cops and make sure Oliphant paid for this.

His phone buzzed, and Huxley jumped. Oliphant’s name and message enraged him further:

Return to the poker table tomorrow morning at eleven. If you don’t show or if you call the cops, I’ll send a note to the code enforcer about your shoddy electrical wiring.

Huxley nearly crushed his phone. How the hell had he discovered the electrical issues? Not that the how of it mattered. If the City learned about the faulty wiring, they might shut the theater down completely. Without the performances, he couldn’t afford the repainting or electrical upgrades. It wouldn’t just be the wiring, either. They’d see the lead pipes he needed to replace, the crumbling plaster.

They could label the building condemned.

How the fuck had he let this happen? After all his progress, how had he worsened his situation?

If Beatrice were here, she’d call Oliphant a spiny lumpsucker or feral warthog. Huxley considered him a conniving miscreant who belonged in Axel’s straitjacket. Sadly, that didn’t change this clusterfuck.

Instead of sinking to his haunches and pulling out his hair like he wanted, Huxley paced. He turned over his options. Calling the cops was out. Playing poker was a one-way ticket to losing Beatrice. That left unleashing Vito.

Huxley tapped out a message on his phone, each aggressive thumb punch vibrating up his wrists. One word about the wiring and I tell Vito you’ve been stealing from Club Crimson’s customers.

Oliphant’s reply came fast. Too fast, like he’d been expecting the threat. Good thing Vito takes a cut of what I earn. Seems to me your only option is a poker game.

Huxley’s lungs ceased to function. He stared at the message like it had been sent to someone else. Like someone else’s life was falling apart. Vito had been his ace. His backup plan. Without that, he was screwed.

Instead of picturing Max Marlow, proud arm slung over Huxley’s shoulder, all he saw was his father glaring down at him, counting the ways his son had messed up. The theater was his brothers’ livelihood. It was his father’s legacy. Huxley couldn’t let his family down like this. Again. Over and over: not saving his father when he should have, ruining Max Marlow’s pride and joy, possibly losing the theater.

Huxley’s mind drifted to Beatrice and their conversation before she’d left. She’d trusted him with her cash advance, saying she wanted to help with the rent, or future theater bills if help was needed. Fuck, he needed a miracle, and her eighteen hundred could be a start. The stake for a game. Just one more to squash Oliphant’s threat. It would keep the street urchin from leaking the information in the short term. He’d have to figure out something else, a way to shake the man’s vendetta for good, but this would buy him time.

Huxley paced. He waffled. He pictured Beatrice encouraging him to accept her money earlier, take her help. She’d wanted to contribute. She’d said it herself. Then he imagined explaining about another final poker game. Her perfect red lips would likely curl in disgust. She’d probably pack her bags and move out. Gambling her savings is exactly what her father had done. Exactly what Huxley promised he’d never do.

But if he didn’t borrow that money, he’d have to tell his brothers they were out of work and watch as someone else took over their birthright.

He needed to speak with her. Explain what happened. Convince her there was no other option. Even with the late hour, he called her cell. The phone clicked over to voicemail.

“Goddamn it.” Of course it was switched off. Or the battery was dead.